


The Senator, The Secretary & The President

by bookworm03



Category: Parks and Recreation
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, American Presidents, F/M, Government, Politics, Washington D.C.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-11
Updated: 2019-04-11
Packaged: 2020-01-11 07:30:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18425850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookworm03/pseuds/bookworm03
Summary: When she was ten years old, she did not want to be President. Canon Universe - slightly divergent. D.C. AU





	The Senator, The Secretary & The President

When she was ten years old, she did not want to be President.

She did not practice political speeches in her room; she did not dream of walking out onto a stage to the roar of applause, and she did not picture herself behind the Resolute Desk in some striking colour posing for a picture.

She wanted to throw around a football with her dad, she wanted to get her nails done and go shopping with her mom, and she wanted to finish her math work quickly in class so she never had to bring the textbook home. It was a big textbook and she was the smallest person in her class, being a year 1-2 years younger than everyone else.

She didn’t know what she wanted to be - maybe a doctor, maybe a lawyer, maybe a scientist or an astronaut - maybe she wanted to work in environmental preservation and spend time tagging sea turtles and swimming with dolphins in crystal blue waters.

But she did not want to be President.

*****

When she was sixteen years old, she did not want to be President either.

First and foremost, she wanted to lose her virginity because her two best friends already had, and they were sharing the nitty gritty details with each other while she was just listening and having nothing to say, no matter how many sex tips she read in Cosmo. She also wanted to weigh 112 pounds because she’d calculated the weight:height ratio between herself and Gisele Bundchen and figured she’d be able to curate the same sort of aesthetic at 112 pounds.

She still wanted to finish her homework in class, because teachers were still giving marks for completion and her textbooks were even bigger now, but it was an exercise in futility really. See one derivative and you’ve seen them all; how the class average a failing one on the last test was beyond her.

She wanted to not be a nerd, but also had definitely embraced how much of a nerd she was. She wanted to care about clothes and shoes a lot more than she did so she felt a little more normal. She wanted to get hickeys and find someone to buy her beer and feel 16 while still maintaining a 4.0, scoring in the 95th percentile on the SATs and acing sophomore analytics and geometry at the community college. She wanted to be all things to all people, including herself.

But she did not even wonder about being President.

*****

When she was 21 she did not want to be President.

She wanted her only remaining high school friend to come home from Iraq because the stupid President had kept him there for way too long. She wanted to sprint through an airport and jump on him knowing he would catch her because he went from scrawny to muscley when he joined the marines. She wanted to touch his face and feel his breath and stop worrying about how she might hear from a person who heard from a person who heard from his mother he was killed in action.

It wasn’t romantic or sexual and she didn’t pine for him or anything. But he was a good person and too many good people weren’t coming home. And that, as far as she concerned, was on the President.

She also wanted to get accepted for her MBA and leave Harvard as valedictorian instead of losing to that annoying kid in her English class who never shut up about juxtaposition. She was pretty sure he’d seen it on word of the day toilet paper and since then had found ways to work it into every conversation ever.

She also, still, wanted to feel a little less broken and a little more feminine. She wanted a man to offer her his jacket that was not her own father. She wanted someone to cuddle up to at the bar, to crawl into bed with at night and to take her out for breakfast in his rowing team sweatshirt or something.

But she hated politics really, truly. She hated voting, even though she never missed an election (and had an extensive feminist rant waiting for any girl who said they “forgot” or didn’t care). She always felt like she was electing the lesser of two evils. And once in office they either did something horrible or hired horrible people, or failed to see reason because they seemed to think they were the smartest person in the room.

 _If you’re the smartest person in the room you’re in the wrong room_ , her dad liked to remind her.

But the older she got the worse being in politics sounded.

*****

When she was 25 she did not want to be President.

She fantasized about assassinating her boss and contemplated lighting the entire firm on fire, but that was about the extent of her hunger for power. She put her head down and read reports and wrote reports and watched people more senior than her take credit for her work.

“You have to pay your dues, Oxford”, the other analysts told her. She’d practically been branded a royalist because she went to the London School of Economics ( _not_ Oxford)  instead of staying in the States.

But she smiled (bared her teeth) and did her work (twiddled her thumbs because she was pretty sure a monkey could do her job just as well) and waited. She wanted for someone to snap her out of her office (the pit of despair) and tell her they saw genius bottled up inside her and what did she think about something. Dear god, she just wanted to be asked what she thought about something and not in a classroom setting where every opinion is “welcome”. She wanted to claw her way to the top, to demand her voice be heard, she wanted to put on her highest heels and her tightest skirt and stomp into the boardroom and make them hear her.

She was not eye candy, a pencil pusher or an order taker, and she was certainly not someone who would be made a mockery of.

But no one was listening.

So maybe, a little, she understood the appeal of being President.

*****

When she was 32 she ran for Senate.

She was tired of Wall Street; the economy was a shitshow, and she’d been approached to fill the vacant seat after the senior senator from Massachusetts resigned due to health concerns. An article she’d published in The Economist comparing their current economic recession with the Great Depression had gained traction and the mass media had picked it up, plastering her corporate photo on every trendy website there was.

It was not a great article, honestly. It was not even original and it was watered down by the time it got circulated. A detailed analysis of the policy of the Federal Reserve for the last five years and their navigation of the fallout from the subprime mortgage crisis was a lot more insightful than anything she’d said being quoted in People.

But it was digestible and she was marketable, apparently, and so it went viral and now they wanted her to run for office.

She was called elitist by some, and told to find a husband by others, but she was not running in the Bible Belt and Boston was no stranger to electing off-the-cuff candidates. The rest of the state followed suit and she won in a landslide.

The labelled her The Golden Girl. The New Face of Politics.

She felt anything but golden, but maybe she could try and do some good for the average person for once, not the millionaires in her hedge fund portfolio.

And she still did not want to be President.

*****

When she was 32 she did not want to be President.

“Excuse me, Miss?” She knew they meant her. Every other woman she’d met since she’d arrived in D.C. had been referred to as “ma’am” as a sign of respect. She glanced up from the kale and quinoa salad she had just stabbed with her fork and turned her head. The woman in front of her was wearing the white and black standard security guard uniform with ill-fitting pants and a shirt that seemed a half a size too small across the tits. The name Marcia was written on her badge.

Marcia’s smile was pained and condescending when their gazes met, and she leaned down a little for effect.

“Yes?”

“It’s just, this is a Senators-only area and there’s no stopping here, you see. For privacy.”

She raised her eyebrows at Marcia.  “Oh? I had no idea.”

“Yes. There’s a dining hall for the public and the visitors on the main level if you are waiting to see someone.” Marcia continued helpfully.

“Of course.” She took her time gathering her things while Marcia breathed loudly out of impatience. She stood, just as what could only be described as thundering footsteps echoed down the hall. Aidan, one of the interns, was in a full sprint when he rounded the corner.

“SENATOR!” He skidded to stop and ignored Marcia. “I’m so sorry to bother you but the Committee on Economic Affairs...the chair is on the phone for you! They’re forwarding it to your cell!”

“Thanks.” She handed Aidan her lunch and asked him to put it in the fridge. Then she turned to Marcia, who she would’ve easily towered over without her Manolos. For some reason that was satisfying to know.

“Cara Williams, Massachusetts.” She said.

*****

When she was 35 she met Ben Wyatt.

She knew his story, boy mayor from some tiny town in Minnesota, state auditor for a decade or so and then city manager in another small town in Indiana, where he met his wife. She knew in the first ten minutes of meeting him he was used to being the most hardened voice in the room. He was anything but hard. He was practical, for certain, but he had an underlying optimism that Boston, London and New York had long since beaten out of her. He hoped for the best and prepared for the worst, but no one could call him steely just like no one would call him soft.

But he was interesting, to be sure, if a bit easily ruffled. She tended to have that effect on people (men). She’d spent the last decade of her life making sure if she walked into the room everyone waited for her to speak and even the most secure man seemed to be threatened by it, because that was what men did. They pretended they were all for equality and they were, probably, until they were at risk of being supplanted by someone without a dick...and then they cried about how she was only there to fill a quota.

But Ben Wyatt was not this kind of man, curiously. Ben said his piece and let Cara say her’s and didn’t offer any alternative suggestions when she asked for his help auditing financials on bad debts. She was certain the brokerages and banks were hiding money. She wanted to blow the roof off that story so when she paid a visit to all the CEOs and lobbyists to discuss debt collection reform next quarter she had a stick of dynamite to dangle in front of them.

Ben, though not really anti-big business, was certainly anti-corporate monopoly. He had enough small town in him to care about the little guy and enough financial sense to understand you can’t stifle growth and expect a booming economy.

She liked Ben. And despite what his profile suggested, she suspected he might have the chops to actually thrive in D.C., not just hang on for dear life.

*****

She loved Leslie Knope about ten minutes into their first conversation. If she felt broken all the time, Leslie Knope seemed unbreakable, unwavering. Her convictions were a little too pure for her own good, but somehow she made it work.

“I’ve read all your papers, so has Ben.”

Cara smiled. She’d figured as much.

“Thank you.” She meant it. “I read your reports on renewable energy and natural resource preservation. I’d love to poke your brain about ways to further incentivize people to go green, mostly big business.”

Leslie Knope’s eyes widened slightly and she nodded, the wheels in the back of her head turning. Cara had heard of _the_  idea binders already. She expected there were about twenty on the subject in Leslie's office waiting to be unleashed.

“You should have dinner with us.” Leslie blurted out, her blue eyes sparkling with excitement. 

“I’d love to.”

She meant that too.

*****

“Ben was the best campaign manager in the history of Pawnee, probably America.”

Ben’s cheeks reddened just a little and he patted his wife’s hand. Leslie beamed. It was quite sweet. As much as Cara believed D.C. could ruin anyone, they seemed to have preserved their little bubble.

“I don’t know, I thought Mehlman did a pretty good job.” Cara said and Ben chuckled a little, clearly used to the slightly hyperbolic praise. Leslie then launched into a story about how she was recalled a year later and Cara’s heart sank.

“They sound insane. Why did you run?”

Leslie took a sip of her wine thoughtfully and then smiled. “I love my town, a little insane or not. And I thought i could make it better.”

“She did.” Ben said with an affirming hand squeeze. They shared another look that they definitely thought was more subtle than it was. Then Leslie turned to her.

“Why did you run?”

It was Cara’s turn to pause thoughtfully and take a sip of her wine. Somehow Cara’s confession seemed worse in front of someone who’d wanted to run for office since she knew what running for office was.

“I didn’t, really.” Cara said, feeling like this was one of those few situations where she could be really honest. “But they asked me to and it seemed like a good opportunity.”

“To get into politics?”

She snorted. “No. I was tired of playing checkers on Wall Street so now I’m playing chess.”

Leslie, god love her, looked startled, as if she couldn’t imagine a politician going into politics who didn’t want to really be there. Ben seemed to take this news with a more rational perspective.

“Well, you’re obviously good at chess.” He said easily.

Cara drained her glass.

“Only play the game if you plan on winning.”

*****

When she was 37 he came back.

Not from Iraq or Afghanistan, he’d been home for years, but when she was 37 he found her. She was in her office with Leslie Knope, having lunch, and her assistant came in and said “John Miller is here to see you.”

She dropped her fork and the blood in her veins turned to ice. Leslie reached out and asked if she was alright, her warmth thawing the tension every so slightly. Cara nodded, straightening a little and telling her assistant she needed a minute.

The door closed and Leslie said “Who’s John Miller?”

“We went to high school together.” She said, remarkably calmly. “He joined the marines...he’s…a friend.”

“But?”

“I just don’t know what he’s doing in D.C.?”

“I can go…”

“Don’t, Les.” She reached out. There was a knock on the door again and Cara took a breath and stood. She was thankful she had worn a navy shift dress today. Her hair was in a low ponytail which may have been a bit severe, but she looked pretty, she hoped.

She shouldn’t care. He was probably married by now. He should be. He was tall and handsome and sweet, god he was so sweet. He was too sweet for someone like her and always had been. The war hadn’t broken him, but she could. There was a stupid joke going around the Senate that Jaws was only the second biggest shark to come out of Massachusetts.

And then he walked in. Tall and handsome and wearing not his uniform, but a Red Sox cap and a neat beard he hadn’t had before. She stepped around her desk and they hugged, more tightly than was probably appropriate. Leslie had not moved.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Cara said with a laugh. His arms were big and solid. She’d missed hugging him.

“I got a job. DOD.”

_Of course you did._

“Oh, hi, I’m John.” He'd noticed her other guest. 

“Leslie Knope.” Leslie stood and smiled as if nothing strange had happened. “Interior. It’s nice to meet you.”

John smiled too, his soft, genuine smile that he had somehow not lost. “It’s a pleasure to meet you as well.”

Cara slid a hand down his back and John looked at her.

“So,” she snapped out of it and took a tiny step back. “DOD, what are you doing there?”

“Deputy Program Manager for Naval Forces.”

She congratulated him, even though him being in D.C. was not something she had expected.

“We should, grab a drink, catch up.” Leslie made a little noise and Cara shot her a look. John, unphased as always, agreed.

“Tonight?”

“I have a foundation dinner thing.”

“Tomorrow?”

“We’re out of town.” She gestured at Leslie. “We have a presentation in Chicago.”

John’s green eyes softened. “Friday.”

She swallowed and said that was fine. Leslie kicked her as John excused himself.

“That was your friend from high school?”

“Yes. We...yes.”

“An ex?”

“No, god no, not like that.”

“He’s very handsome.”

“I suppose.’

“And into you.”

Cara bit her lip. “Let’s go over those notes before you have to go back.”

*****

“I’m not a camper.”

“Neither was I.” Ben said as he stirred the eggs, expertly balancing a skillet over the campfire. Being from Minnesota and “not a camper” was not the same thing as being from the East Coast and never choosing to spend time on streets that were not paved. Leslie’s old colleague was now running this entire National Park in Pawnee, Indiana so they had elected to spend the long weekend there. Cara just needed to get away for a bit before the new election cycle really kicked up. There were a lot of bugs and she was not one for spending nights outside, but it certainly was beautiful. And it was secluded. Leslie appeared as Ben was tipping the eggs onto the plate, a stack of pancakes in her hand. Cara reached for her coffee.

“We’re glad you came. Now how was your date?”

“Um, what?” Ben raised an eyebrow and Cara groaned.

“It was not a date. We were just were catching up.”

“With who?”

“An old friend who works for DOD now. I don’t date, remember?” She gave Leslie a pointed look. “The public likes their male politicians nice and family oriented and they like to forget their female politicians have a life outside of work. And also it’s just not like that.”

“Does he know that?”

Cara took her pancakes and eggs and swatted at a mosquito that had landed on her leg. She swore and Leslie handed her more bug spray.

“Sometimes things just happen when they’re supposed to. Ben was an ass when I met him and look at us now.  
  
Cara laughed and Ben rolled his eyes. “I was doing my job.”

“Yes, and being a jerk about it, you took away all my parks services and made me nonessential.”

“I was...” He threw up his hands in what could only be described as amused exasperation. They’d clearly had this conversation many times before. Leslie leaned down for a quick kiss and patted his leg.

“The point is, you don’t have to only be one thing.”

“The point is if Donaldson wins there’s going to be an empty Senate seat in Massachusetts again.”

Leslie’s head snapped back and Ben calmly sat down in a folding chair opposite her. Cara stabbed at her eggs and avoided eye contact.

“What did he promise you?”

“It’s still early.”

“Cara Williams, you tell me right this minute what he promised you.”

“A Cabinet post.”

Leslie made a strangled noise and leaned forward, grabbing her leg to the point of pain. Cara winced.

“Which?”

She didn’t even want to breathe it aloud, not until it was final; not until the universe had accepted it as fact and there was nothing else to be done. It felt like a snowflake hanging in midair, not quite ready to fall in case it wasn’t really winter yet. But Cara could feel Leslie’s excitement radiating through her pores and it was hard to contain her when she was like that.

“State?” Ben offered helpfully. Cara shook her head. Leslie’s hand tightened to the point of cutting off blood flow. She had clearly guessed already.

“Cara.”

“You cannot breathe a word.” She knew Leslie would not, at least not intentionally, but it needed to be said. This had to be under lock and key until the country was at least sort of ready to hear it.

At least until their percentage of the electoral college was ready to hear it.

“Treasury.”

Leslie jumped up and yelped and both their coffee cups clattered to the ground. Cara gratefully accepted the hug she was given, whimpering a little as relief flowed through her. She wasn’t sure what kind of a reaction she expected...maybe not an unconditionally supportive one. She at least expected everyone to be a little wary, not only because of her gender but because of her age.

But Leslie Knope hugged her like it was a done deal...like one more floor of the ever growing glass ceiling was about to be shattered in their lifetime.

“He has to win first, Leslie.” Cara reminded her. Ben had also stood and came over to join the hug.

“He will.” Leslie said with absolute certainty.

“And they may do some polls and decide the country isn’t ready for it. For me.”

“Maybe that’s a good thing.” Ben offered simply. “Maybe they don’t know what they need.”

Ben Wyatt: reluctant optimist.

*****

When she was 38 she made history.

She stood behind the President of the United States as his newly confirmed Secretary of the Treasury. She listened to his brief statement and then gave one of her own and, contrary to what she knew everyone was hoping for, she did not once reference her gender and what a big accomplishment this was for women.

The real accomplishment would be everyone accepting this as normal and the more abnormal she made it seem, the more she latched onto the media’s narrative that this was extraordinary and possibly a little bit foolish on Donaldson’s part, the more the people would believe that -

“Madam Secretary, what does it feel like to be the first woman to hold this position?”

 _Sigh_. Cara squared her shoulders.

“I’m sure it feels the same as it did for every other Secretary of the Treasury. Except maybe Hamilton.”

There was a mild chorus of laughter and she continued.

“But I’m very honored to be up here, representing the American people and doing what I can to keep our economy strong and vital.”

“Are you surprised that you were confirmed on the first day?”

“Clearly not as surprised as you were, Steve.” Another round of laughter, this time a little heartier. She held up a hand and picked up her water.

“Thanks guys, I better get to work.”

*****

“Madam Secretary.”

“Mr. Under Secretary.” She stood as Ben walked into her office. His hair was slicked back and he was wearing a new suit she’d made him go out and buy that morning. It was not that his old suits were bad, but she didn’t want him to look like an auditor anymore. He needed more flare or something.

“Are you ready to go to war with the Federal Reserve?”

He was terrified and buzzing with excitement, which emulated how she was feeling. She’d dreamed about this, of being in a place to evoke real change, and now she was here. Now it was her turn to pull the trigger.

“I really, really am.” He looked like a kid on Christmas morning.

“Awesome.” She smoothed out her skirt, secured a piece of hair with a bobby pin and gathered her coat and bag.

“Let’s go.”

******

“You getting slow on me?” 

Cara growled, forcing herself to keep up with John despite the fact that her legs were burning and she wanted to scream out of frustration. How was she supposed to be faster than a marine? She beat him once in high school and he never let her forget it.

“It’s all that sitting.” He said with a laugh. “All that yelling at people in Cabinet meetings for not letting you finish your sentence.”

Jesus, did he have a tape recorder in the room? How had he known that?

“Hey, I’m outdoorsy, I camp now and everything”

“I would pay money to see you camping.”

She flipped him off and picked up her pace, the Secret Service agents on either side of them speeding up with her. John blew passed all of them and she shouted after him until he slowed down.

By the time they were finished she was gassed and trying her damndest not to show it. John hovered over her as one of the Secret Service agents spoke into his sleeve. You get one bomb delivered to your office and suddenly no one will let you live your life.

“Cara.”

She straightened and stared at him, his green eyes flecked with gold in the sunlight. “I’m worried about you.”

“I’m fine.”

“At least come stay with me for a few days. It’ll be like camping. Your favorite.”

“You don’t need to worry.”

He leaned down a little.

“I will always worry about you, Madam Secretary.” His index finger slid under her chin and tilted it upwards. She inhaled and his hand was gone just as quickly. She willed it to come back, but her phone rang.

“I…”

“I know.” He gave a little wave. “Call me later.”

*****

“Class, now, I want everyone to be on their best behaviour for our guests.” Cara heard the the teacher her say in a firm-but-loving educator voice. Leslie was strolling casually down the halls, glancing at artwork and surprisingly graphic murals that lined City Hall. She’d been met with an uproar, her old department had come to welcome her home  and there were hugs and tears and vanilla ice cream cakes (which was apparently someone named Jerry’s fault). Ben was there too, but he was not speaking to the students in the City Council chambers with them.

“May I present, our first female City Councilwoman and the current Deputy Director of Operations for the Department of Interior - Leslie Knope!”

They cheered for Leslie with such excitement. Cara watched a few girls run out to hug her and Leslie hugged them back. She watched a few boys rush up to shake her hand because they were 13 and wanted to act like men. She watched the teacher practically curtsy when Leslie came to stand in front of her with a an easy wave. She was one of them who had evolved beyond Pawnee, but she was homegrown. She’d sat where they’d sat, she’d walked in their shoes.

Finally Leslie was seated and the teacher spoke again.

“And,” she began, sounding much less excited. “Secretary of the Treasury Cara Williams.”

The applause were meagre, for she was no hometown hero, but as soon as she stepped into the room they faded completely. Silence. Fear? Awe? Maybe a little of both? Nobody approached her, nobody dared to make eye contact, she tried to smile but there was no one to smile at.

This was why she could never run for more than Senate. Middle America would never relate to her. Middle America would see her as everything they were not whereas Leslie Knope was everything they hoped to be.

“Good morning.” She said, taking her seat beside Leslie, who reached under the table and squeezed her hand. Leslie did most of the talking and Cara sat there feeling tired. She ached for her phone, to check some emails and yell at some people and to be in a place where cold and unwavering was an asset, not a hindrance. She caught one boy staring at her intently and tried to smile in his direction. He quickly looked away.

Leslie spoke of parks, of the importance of their preservation, of how much she loved coming back home and how she wished she could spend more time there. She talked about her teachers and her colleagues and their eyes were wide with amazement.

“Secretary Williams works with the President.” Leslie added. Every eye in the room turned to her for a second and then back to Leslie.

When the class was asked if they had any questions none were for her. Leslie answered all of them incredibly. .

And then Secret Service stepped into the room. All of her agents, that was. They rushed forward and grabbed Cara by the elbow and every person stood up.

“Ma’am,” one whispered low in her ear. “We just received a threat for an attempt on your life.”

Cara motioned for Leslie, who remained seated in her chair, looking perplexed.

“Go.” Leslie mouthed, as the agents tugged on her arms. A kid shouted i _s something wrong?_

Cara stopped and the agents pulled, but she resisted. She peeled herself away and turned to face the kid square on.

“Everything’s fine.” She said, her voice steady and crisp. “My office just received a threat that probably hasn’t been validated, right?” She glanced at her agent. “It happens all the time.”

“A threat on what?” Another spoke, eyes huge.

“On me.” There was a collective gasp.

“Why?”

Cara shifted her gaze to Leslie who gave her a little nod. She kept going.

“Because my job is to manage the economy. To make sure interest rates are where they should be and taxes are what they need to be, and people have jobs and the government has money to do the programs it wants to do for the good of the country.”

They were listening.

“And when you’re dealing with money people with a lot of it tend to get pretty pissed off at you if you don’t give them tax breaks.”

The room giggled because she said _pissed_. Leslie grinned.

“So they want to kill you?” A tiny girl asked. Cara crossed the room and knelt beside her.

"No. They want to make sure I’m too scared to do my job properly.”

“And are you?”

She shrugged. “I’m scared every day. I’m scared I’ll make the wrong decision, I’m scared someone will disagree with me and I’ll look silly...But you should never be scared to do the right thing because if you are there’s no point. No matter what your job is, no matter who your boss is, if you’re not doing the right thing you might as well do nothing.”

They did not react. They did not breathe, really, they just stared at her in what was definitely awe now. Leslie spoke next.

“Secretary Williams is the first woman to ever hold the position of Secretary of the Treasury.”

“Wow.” A few people whispered.

“Ma’am, we really must go.”

She sighed. “Sorry guys. It was nice meeting you.”

“A round of applause for Secretary Williams for giving us some of her very valuable time.”

It was not a roar, but it was a lot more than she probably deserved.

*****

He was there when the plane landed. Standing outside her town car in a dark suit with messy hair like he’d been running his hand through it. She waited until she was told it was clear for her to move and then she walked down the stairs, keeping her eyes straight ahead and ignoring the cameras. She gave a little wave for effect and murmured to the agent in front of her she wanted them gone.

The press was removed and she walked across the tarmac to her car and they hugged. His fingers gripped her back and she shivered a little from the tension in his body.

“You’re not going home.”

It was the first time she realized she’d been actually fearful for her life. She just nodded.

His place was small and Secret Service spent almost 40 minutes securing it before they were allowed inside. He gave her one of his marine corps t-shirts that was soft and well worn. He poured them both a scotch and she sat on his comfortable leather couch and Boomer, his German Shepherd, put his head in her lap while she scratched his ears.

It was nice. She loved her house. She loved her decorative pillows and her chic and on trend couch. She loved her overpriced chair and its fabulous carpets but this...it was cozy and homey and a little too well lived in, but she could get used to it.

Not that she would. She hadn’t been here since he moved for a reason.

“Well, Miller, how have you been?”

“Worried about you.” He said. “Put me on your security detail.”

“You’re beyond that. I’d make you director before I made you an agent.” He was so self deprecating he forgot how smart he was.

“You need protection, Cara.”

“I have it.”

“Fine.” He set his drink down. “But I don’t trust anyone but myself with you.”

It was the kind of thing that should make her want to kiss him and maybe she did, but it wouldn’t be right. She’d long resigned herself to the fact that she was meant to stay single and do great things even if marriage and babies wasn’t an idea she was totally against. It just didn’t work.

“Cara.” He picked up her hand. “Please.”

“I’m okay.” She promised as their fingers tangled.

She spent the next three days in his bed. He slept in the guest room.

*****

Ben was a good dancer, which she found surprising. They were at the State Dinner and the orchestra was playing some classical version of a top 40 hit. Someone from the press had already called her dress too slutty, according to Twitter, but all she cared about was getting to talk to the President about his reelection campaign. There were whisperings he wasn’t running again but she needed to hear it straight from the source.

“Are you going to run if he doesn’t?” Ben asked. She shook her head as they sidestepped another pair of dancers.

“I’m...even if he doesn’t, I wouldn’t win. I’m too east coast, I’m unrelatable. I’m unmarried, I’m female...it doesn’t make sense to waste money on a campaign.”

Ben looked a little disappointed, but nodded and they turned.

“For what it’s worth, I think you’d be great.”

“No one’s great.” She said. “At least not until after they’re dead.”

The music changed and someone cleared their throat. John, in a tuxedo, asked if he could cut in.  Ben obliged, happy to hand Cara over and go search out his wife, who had definitely discovered the cupcake tower in a far corner.

It was the same question again from the Lieutenant.

“You should dance with Ben You can beat a dead horse together.”

John ignored her and twirled her expertly. If Ben was a surprisingly good dancer, John moved her like she was weightless. It was the difference between dancing together with someone and being led.

For some reason she preferred the latter. Maybe because for those brief moments she could let someone else take charge.

“When did you learn to waltz?” She asked mildly, grateful for a change in subject. Her fingers curled in his as they demanded a wider berth than the rest of the couples. 

“Vienna.” He murmured in her ear.  

“You were never in Vienna.”

“I know, but it sounds cool, doesn’t it? Very secret agent-y.”

She laughed. 

“Why aren’t you running, Cara?”

She started listing all the reasons she’d just told Ben in what she was fairly certain was the exact same order, but John held up a hand.

“That’s why they don’t think you should run. Why aren’t you running?”

She bit her lip, working up the nerve to meet his gaze. It was hard to look at him for some reason, as if he was the only person who could make her doubt what she knew to be true.

“I’ll lose, Miller.”

“You never lose.”

“Because I only play what I can win.”

“No, you just always find a way to win. Look at your Senate race, look at your Secretary nomination...there’s no reason you should’ve won either of those, but you did.”

“This is different.” She said as the song ended. John shook his head, his voice almost a growl now.

“Maybe…” He spoke too loudly for her liking in the deafening silence of the ballroom. “But don’t give me some bullshit excuse like I don’t know you better than that. If you want to do something you should do it. Who gives a fuck what the party snobs think.”

He released her and started to walk away. Cara balked and felt eyes on her. Staring, whispering, judging as if they’d just witnessed some sort of lovers’ quarrel instead of complete display of insubordination. Her cheeks grew hot and she took a deep breath before starting after him.  

“Hey!” She snapped, shooting daggers at the few people who lingered in the hallway. They quickly left as John turned around. She hissed, stepping right up to him.

“I am the goddamn Secretary of the United States Treasury and you don’t get to tell me what I am or am not in front of the entire Cabinet and half the Senate! You don't get to say shit like that!”

John turned. “I know you.”

“I don’t give a fuck! Everyone heard you! That’s humiliating! I’m humiliated. I claw my way to the top and then you treat me like I’m…”

She didn’t know how to finish that sentence. What had he treated her like? As if she was some woman who didn’t know her own mind or a person who was confused and needed someone to tell her like it was? Did she _want_ to run?

John stepped closer to her and pulled her in by the shoulders. She inhaled sharply, his hands feeling too big on her.

“Run for President, Cara. You’re not done yet, are you?”

He was gone before she could answer.

*****

“I hear you’re not running.”

Cara groaned and put her feet up on the coffee table, accepting the glass of wine Leslie handed her. Ben had an ultimate frisbee tournament or something and the kids were out and they were alone. She’d been hoping Leslie wouldn’t bring it up after hearing about her biting the head off of the last person who dared to ask.

Oh, who was she kidding? Of course she knew Leslie was going to bring it up.  

“I know you would run if you were me.”

Leslie rested her head on Cara’s shoulder and sighed a little. “The longer I’m in D.C. the harder it is to remember why I wanted to run sometimes…” She trailed off and then came back. “But yes, I would run if I were you. You have as good a chance as anyone. Just because you haven’t been pre-campaigning for the last two years doesn’t mean you don’t deserve the nomination.”

Cara inhaled. “They don’t want me.”

“Why does it matter what they want?” Cara shot Leslie a look. “Okay fine, it matters what they want, but most of them didn’t want you for Treasury either. You convinced them.”

“I don’t even want to be President. I never have.”

“Did you want to be the Secretary of Treasury?”

“No.”

“So why are you?”

“He asked.” She swallowed. “He said he needed me.”

“Well I need you.” Leslie turned to face her full on. “I’m asking. You are a lot more deserving than anyone else they could put on that ticket.”

Cara tried to smile, but it hurt to do so. Leslie squeezed her hand.

“You could do a lot of good. You know that.”

“Maybe.”  
  
She hoped, anyway.  
  


*****

When she was 39 she announced her candidacy for President of the United States.

She did it in the Boston Commons. She stood on a little podium, she wore ripped jeans and white Converse sneakers (Leslie’s choice) and kept her hair in a loose ponytail. She let Ben write her speech, which she explicitly stated she wanted under two minutes, and she hired Jen Barkley on his recommendation to keep the rest of the campaign staff in line - which Barkley was clearly very good at.

John was not there.

It was cold and the wind was blowing off the bay, whipping her hair against her face, but it was sunny and she was so hyped up on adrenaline she barely noticed the temperature.

She spoke of history and revolution; not reform. She spoke of change for the better, not the path of least resistance. The right would call her bombastic and the left, a pseudo-liberal capitalist.

After, a reporter from WaPo asked her why she wanted to be President and she almost laughed in his face and cited all the reasons it sounded like a really shitty job to have.

“I don’t, really,” She said, pressing her lips into a firm line to level her breath. Her heart was pounding in her ears and the world seemed to blur. It was just her and his tape recorder.

“It’s not about being President or not being President. I don’t care whether I’ve put enough years into D.C. or fit the mould of what a President is supposed to look like or be. But I think the mould is broken and it’s time to shake things up and if you elect me we can do a lot of good for a lot of people.”

It was not the answer anyone was expecting and the reporters all stood there in stunned silence.

Two days later she’d jump 6 points in the polls.

*****

When she was 40 she won the party nomination.

A week before the DNC she announced her running mate. 

She’d held a few interviews, but she’d known who she’d wanted for a long time. They kept bringing her Governors and Senators and talking about people who complimented her as a candidate. The opposition was a war hero who had chosen an unknown female law professor from Ohio in a surprisingly shrewd move. Jen even admitted that would’ve been her pick.

Cara did not want to pick someone because she should, though. She wanted to pick someone she would work with and work well with. She wanted to want to push her Veep’s policies through, to give them agency over their platforms instead of giving them the stuff she didn’t want to have to deal with.

But when this person sat down in front of her, looking tired from being fresh off a whirlwind campaign trip to Minnesota, she felt guilty. The person who wanted to be President, the person who practiced political speeches in her room when she was ten years old, who lectured her stuffed animals on the importance of voting and sacrificed her social life to run the whole student government…

The person who ran a killer race for City Council at the expense of her love life, who bled every day for her hometown and finally found the courage to strike out to bigger and braver things…

The person who they all knew would work the hardest and fight the hardest and be the purest, most honest, most productive out of all of them...could not be her running mate.

And it broke Cara’s heart a little… a lot.

Instead, it was the failed boy mayor, the man who spent his entire adult life just trying to do the right thing. Not the flashy thing, not the newsworthy thing, not the thing that was going to get him noticed, but the boring, steady, unremarkably right thing.

She felt his conflict the second he looked at her. He knew before she spoke.

“I need it to be you.” She said, fighting back the lump in her throat. “I’m sorry. You don’t get a choice.”

He dropped his head into his hands and nodded. He understood, even if he wanted to yell at her to pick Leslie instead. She loved Leslie and she would find her something else, a Cabinet post, an advisory position... She could give Leslie anything and - experienced or not - Leslie would find a way to be great at it. But Veep? Leslie Knope was a public servant, not a politician, and Veep would break her. D.C. would break her if Cara made Leslie her running mate.

And she could not be responsible for doing that to her friend.  

“Let me tell her.” Ben said. Cara shook her head.

“No. Just say yes; I’ll talk to her.”

“I can’t say yes without telling my wife.”

Cara supposed that was true.

“I’ll talk to her today then...But is that a yes?”

He nodded, barely, and they shook hands, which turned into a hug. He was trembling a little, or maybe she was, it was hard to say.

She swiped at her eyes as soon as Ben was gone and managed to ask her assistant to call Leslie in.

*****

Leslie, being Leslie, did not even seem upset. She said of course Ben was the right choice and Ben would be an amazing Vice President and something about his butt, which Cara pretended not to hear.  

And when Cara Williams, the Democratic Nominee for President of the United States, started sobbing uncontrollably within the confines of her office, it was Leslie Knope who hugged her so tightly it was hard to breath.

“Leslie, look,” Cara grabbed her hands when she’d managed to compose herself. “If it was just up to me I would take either of you in a heartbeat but - ”

“We’ll be lucky if they elect one woman on the ticket, let alone two.”

Cara sighed. “What do you want? Interior? State? Something else?”

“Interior.” She said with a smile.

The woman did love her parks.

*****

She knocked on his door at 9pm. He knew to expect her because he’d watched Secret Service lurking outside for the better part of a half hour.

“Madam Secretary.”

“Lieutenant Miller.”

“To what do I owe the pleasure?”

She laughed quietly, the tears building behind her eyes again. She was tired, so very tired. She wanted to nap for a hundred hours and they hadn’t even had their first debate yet.  

“Today sucked.”

“I saw.”

“I need a drink.”

“I think i have one of those somewhere.” He stepped back and she stepped inside. Her lead agent and her body double followed. They checked the windows and closed the blinds and combed every inch of his house while Cara and John stood in the middle of the living room and waited. She put down her purse without breaking eye contact. Boomer came to stand beside her dutifully.

“I’m sorry.”

“For?”

“Yelling? Ignoring you? Take your pick.”

“Apology accepted.” Secret Service finally exited and he moved into the kitchen to get her drink.

“I need you with me.”

“What about the polls?” He asked as he poured them both a tall glass of red wine. It was a nice bottle, she noted, one of her favorites. He knew she’d come before Secret Service showed up.

“What about them?”

“Won’t they have things to say about me being around?”

“I don’t care.” She said, her voice breaking for the third time that day. If there was one thing she had learned it was there were things a lot more important than winning...or maybe she’d learned there were a lot better ways to win.

“I need you with me.”

He handed her the wine and gave a curt nod.

“Then I’ll be there.”

*****

On a rainy night in November, six and a half months before her 41st birthday, CNN called it at 9:48pm.

There were screams and champagne bottles popping and she was handed glasses by three separate people as Ben hugged her and Leslie kissed Ben and John kissed her and then finally, Leslie wrapped Cara up tightly.

“Madam President.” Leslie whispered, a distinct tremor in her voice. Cara squeezed her eyes shut, willing the tears to stay inside where they belonged. There would be time for crying later.

And, on a bitterly cold day in January, Cara Williams put on a royal blue coat and her highest high heels; she slipped on some gloves and tucked in her scarf and watched as everyone outside settled into their seats.

She was alone, but not really. Her friends were outside, her family was outside and her...whatever he was, would be holding the Bible because she really didn’t care how it looked. She was tired of protocol and nuance. She was ready to get shit done.

Also, he looked extremely handsome in an overcoat.

The doors were thrown open and she took a deep, shaky breath and stepped out to the sound of applause.

It was not a roar, like she’d anticipated, but thunder and enough of it to make the ground rumble beneath her toes. She shivered. 

And there, on that bitterly cold day in January, Cara Williams made history again.

She had never wanted to be President.

But on that day she knew there was nowhere else she was supposed to be.


End file.
